


It's Not My Fault I'm Happy

by coffeeandoranges



Category: A Song of Ice and Fire - George R. R. Martin, Game of Thrones (TV)
Genre: Alternate Universe - College/University, Beer, Class Issues, F/F, F/M, Femslash, Internalized Homophobia, M/M, Passion Pit - Freeform, Satire, Sibling Bonding, silliness
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2014-05-04
Updated: 2014-05-13
Packaged: 2018-01-21 20:12:46
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 2
Words: 8,545
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/1562549
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/coffeeandoranges/pseuds/coffeeandoranges
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Today at Westeros University: Margaery is sorority president, Dr. Martell is the toughest professor in school, Theon is wearing jorts, Jon is smoking weed on the roof, and Arya has started a feminist blog, which is read only by Jeyne Poole. </p><p>Welcome to Sansa Stark’s freshman year of college. </p><p>Part college AU, part songfic, with a side helping of sibling relationships, social politics, and femslash, this is pretty much glittery trash, based on personal experience at a university in the American South circa 2010.</p>
            </blockquote>





	1. Part One

**Author's Note:**

  * For [FullmetalChords](https://archiveofourown.org/users/FullmetalChords/gifts).



> Because college would have sucked without you.

\--

\--

 

Sansa is at the gym when she sees her.

Glossy brown ponytail, bobbing when she walks.

And the girl turns around and—

_Cute butt._

_Are those Lululemon yoga pants?_

Sansa’s eyes narrow. She just wants to know the make of the yoga pants, there’s nothing in those skin-tight black leggings worth seeing, nothing at all—

_Ouch._

Searing pain as Sansa remembers she is, in fact, running on a treadmill.

She pauses the treadmill and massages her ankle, trying to make it look like a casual stretch.

Takes a long sip out of her waterbottle to hide her mortification.

Then chokes on it.

_Smooth, Stark. Smooth._

The girl she was eyeing has found two of her friends, and now they are all laughing like… a sexy laughing trio.

Hopefully not at her.

The brown-haired girl crinkles her nose when she laughs.

_Oh god._

Sansa can feel the fluttering starting in her stomach, so she takes another sip of water to distract herself.

All three girls are dressed identically in black leggings, neon Nikes, and V-neck shirts that bear the same two enigmatic symbols: a funny-looking E, and a circle with a line through it.

_Sorority girls._

Her mother’s been bugging Sansa to go through rush ever since she started college.

Apparently, she’d had a ball in college with her own sorority, Kappa Nu. But when her mother pointed them out on Move-in Day, they all looked wholesome and kind of… weirdly religious. 

Which, no thanks.

But suddenly Sansa is a lot more interested in the idea.

As she watches the trio of girls retreat, there’s only one person who can help her.

Sansa pulls out her phone, skimming past two needy, drunk texts from her half-brother Jon, a sophomore going through a dramatic break-up with his boyfriend/ roommate Sam.

She loves her family—even Jon—but at times like this, Sansa likes to pretend he doesn’t exist, or go to the same school as her.

She’ll deal with Jon later. She’s located the name she is looking for.

_Theon Greyjoy._

If there is anyone at WU who will know which sorority Ponytail Girl belongs to, it’s her cousin Theon. After all, sorority girls are something of a specialty for him.

She starts texting him, determined to get to the bottom of this.

_(339): Hey loser. Question._

The reply comes quickly:

_(781): Shoot. In class. Bored as hell._

_(339):  Hey, so who’s the hot sorority girl who wears Lululemon to the gym. Brown ponytail?_

Theon types for a while but no reply pops up. Then—

_(781):  Uh, all of them, Sans. More specific pls._

 Fair point.

_(339): Her letters are like an E and a circle thing._

The reply comes lightning-fast this time.

_(781): Shit. That’s a sigma theta._

_(339): Is that a good thing?_

_(781): Sans. They’re only like the hottest slam pieces in school._

Sansa smiles. Although she hates the way Theon talks about girls sometimes, it is nice to have her good taste recognized.

_(339): Seriously agreeing with you._

She bites her lip.

_(339): But who’s that girl then?_

_(781): No fucking clue. Like I said, they all look like that._

Sansa sighs. Dead end. She’ll just have to rush Sigma Theta and find out the hard way. 

But then Theon has one of his rare brainwaves:

_(781): Hang on though. There’s a TZZ party tonite and all the sigmas usually go to those._

Sansa frowns.

_(339): TZZ ?_

_(781): Tau Zeta Zeta. It’s a frat._

She considers this for a moment.

_(339) : Are you sure there’ll be girls there?_

_(781): You’re a girl. Asking me if there are gonna be girls at a frat party._

Sansa winces.

_(339): Yes._

_(781): You’re the gayest thing ever, do you know that?_

Sansa can feel the tips of her ears redden, now grateful no one can overhear this conversation. Then she texts three words in response:

_(339): No, that’s Jon._

Theon pauses before responding. Sansa hopes she didn’t make him laugh in the middle of class, her cousin’s grades are bad enough as it is.

_(781): Ok. Second gayest thing ever._

_(339): Luv ya cos._

_(339): Any chance you have an invite? I’d love you even more then._

_(781): You know it._

Sansa fights the urge to fist-pump in the middle of the gym.

Trust Theon to score an invite to a party with the best sorority in school. It was ironic that her nickname for Theon was “loser” when Theon was actually the least loser-y of all the Starks.

Maybe it was the Greyjoy genes. Then, thinking of her cousin Asha, Sansa shudders.

On second thought, maybe not.

She frowns. Tonight, all of that was changing anyway, she decides as she towels off. She, Sansa Stark, was going to dominate the party, get the girl, and—

She’d just walked directly into a weights machine.

 

_\--_

_\--_

 

The afternoon passes painfully slowly after that.

Sansa has just one class on Thursdays, political science with Dr. Martell, which she knows she has to be on her best behavior for, since Dr. Martell is kind of dating her aunt.

Dr. Martell’s severe Hilary-Clinton bob makes her nervous. Sansa tries not to chew the ends of her hair.

Really, could she go anywhere to escape her family?

Probably not.

The Starks were numerous and dominant along the East Coast. It was hard to go anywhere from Maine to Virginia and not run into a Stark.

The southern portion of it clustered around WU in Virginia, including Aunt Lyanna and her apparent new girlfriend, who just happened to be Sansa’s political science professor.

_Lucky me._

The only Stark who’s escaped WU is Robb, who was so smart and involved in a million things in high school, he actually got into Harvard.

He’s a junior now. Sansa’s lips twist to think of it, how old he’s getting now. Of all her family, she’s probably closest to her big brother, although going to WU has certainly made her appreciate Theon.

After all, he came through for her today.

Sansa’s mind starts wandering to what she’s going to wear.

Heels, of course. Sansa’s height is one of her best features, among many, and she likes to play it up when she’s trying to impress someone.

But the question was: Ferragamos or Louboutins?

Which would the girl at the gym choose?

“Sansa,” Dr. Martell calls out.

Sansa feels the blood drain from her face.

“I was wondering if you could tell us more about the social contract theory.”

Sansa freezes, aware that every head in the room is turned towards her.

_Think, Stark—what’s the social contract theory?_

Sansa recognizes the term from skimming the chapter the night before. But she didn’t know she’d be asked to define it.

“Um,” she says, in a small voice. “Like, it’s when people have an unspoken law not to do certain things. Like, murder or steal?”

“Wrong,” comes Dr. Martell’s response.

Sansa wants to sink into the floor. She’s usually a better student than this.

But then, she’s only been here a few weeks and her college professors already seem way less forgiving than her high school teachers.

Dr. Martell moves to call on a girl two rows in front of Sansa, who has the longest, prettiest hair Sansa has ever seen.

“She was going in the right direction,” says Hair Girl. “It _is_ an unspoken agreement. Just one made between the people of a given country and their government.”

“Correct,” says Dr. Martell approvingly. “Remind me: what’s your name?”

“Dany,” says Hair Girl, who turns around to face Sansa.

Who turns around to see if she’s looking at someone else.

But no. The girl is _definitely_ looking at her.

Hair Girl—Dany—is very beautiful, but something about her makes Sansa think twice before saying so.  Maybe it’s the hair: long and pale and silver-gold, she wears it in a braidy hairstyle Sansa’s mom might have tried in 1968. In fact, most of her get-up looks like it came from Haight-Ashbury, from the sandals to the long skirt to Indian-style top.

Sansa stares back at her.

_Are you for real?_

Getting the message her attention is unwelcome, Hair Girl turns back around.

  _Thank God._

Sansa certainly wouldn’t get into Sigma Theta with that girl following her around.

 

\--

\--

 

The minute Sansa walks in the door, her ears are assaulted by MGMT.

“Oh, sorry!” Jeyne gets up and scrambles to turn it down. “Having a little jam sesh.”

“Clearly.”

“How was your day?” Jeyne says, beaming at her. It’s not hard to see the source of her good mood: Jeyne’s already cradling a handle of Smirnoff like it’s a baby.

“The usual,” Sansa mumbles, diving into the pantry for a jar of peanut butter. She’s _starving_. “Martell still scares the shit out of me.”

Her hand finds the jar of peanut butter and the other finds a spoon. Sansa’s thoughts stop as she takes a bite right out of the jar. _Mmm._

“Stress eating?” Jeyne says. “That’s bad for you, you know.”

“I went to the gym this morning,” Sansa says, a little self-consciously. Jeyne is a vegetarian and now, apparently, a health freak, ever since she saw that animal-abuse video in Current Issues 122.

 “Peanut farmers around the world live on less a dollar a day,” Jeyne observes. “I read it on your sister’s blog.”

Sansa groans. “You read that thing?”

Jeyne nods vigorously, her eyes wide. “Your sister is so smart for a high-schooler! She’s such a strong feminist, she could teach my women’s studies course.”

Sansa was fighting the urge to roll her eyes. Arya’s new pet project was running a feminist blog. And of course it was, after years of taking tae kwon do classes and threatening to beat up any boy who came near her. Like, it was good to be a feminist, but Sansa always thought Arya took it a little too far _._  

 _And anyway, if you think it’s hard being a girl… try being a girl who_ likes _girls._

Jeyne interrupts Sansa’s gloomy train of thought, by asking her what to wear.

“Ugh, I don’t know,” Sansa says, smacking her hand against her forehead. “Heels. Definitely heels.”

“I was going to ask if I could borrow your blue dress?” Jeyne asks, the words coming out all at once, in a rush.

“Of course,” Sansa says, waving a hand at her overflowing dresser.

She can’t help but notice the difference between Jeyne’s neat (and mostly empty) dresser and her own, stuffed to the brim with beautiful clothes.

 “Thank you,” Jeyne says, her voice sounding a little strained.

Sansa doesn’t know why Jeyne is so embarrassed, it’s not like they’ve haven’t gone through this song and dance before. Jeyne’s family doesn’t have a lot of money, but Sansa is totally fine with lending Jeyne nice clothes to cover for it, especially in a money-soaked campus like Westeros U.

But Jeyne _is_ embarrassed, and, face reddening, dashes over to the dresser to pull the dress quickly over her head.

Sansa winces again at her speed. _I said you could_ wear _it, not that you could rip it._

But she decides not to mention it, opting to unscrew Jeyne’s bottle of Smirnoff and pour herself a shot.

“Are we going to have fun tonight, or what?” she says out loud, to break the awkward silence.

Jeyne is looking at herself critically in the mirror. She’s shorter and stockier than Sansa, and the dress doesn’t quite hang right on her.

“You look great,” says Sansa. “You know—”

She dives into her own dresser and extracts a gold belt.

“I have just the belt for that.”

Jeyne belts the dress, and it _is_ an improvement, especially once she puts on a pair of heels. She tosses her hair—Sansa catches a whiff of her perfume—and frowns, but pronounces herself acceptable.

Sansa turns the radio back up. The DJ is talking at first, but then she and Jeyne hear the first line of the next song ( _If you’re not drunk ladies and gentlemen, get ready to get fucked up!_ ), and Sansa starts to squeal and high-fives Jeyne.

Putting their hands in the air, both girls start dancing wildly. By the time the song gets to the chorus ( _SHOTS SHOTS SHOTS_ ) they’re both yelling in each other’s faces. _If you ain’t drunk get the fuck out the club._

Towards the end of the song, they collapse into their desk chairs, and Jeyne says: “This calls for, um, you know, a shot.”

Jeyne pours herself another shot, smiling at Sansa. They toast each other, downing Smirnoff Lime in a swift, synchronized motion.

It’s official: the evening has begun.

Sansa is in a happy glow of liquor while she plans her outfit. She lays out a skintight pair of black jeans out on her bed—she forgot to shave this morning—and is just considering her top when Jeyne speaks, sounding sad.

“That was Theon’s favorite song,” Jeyne says, unhappily. “I texted him to come over, but I haven’t heard back.”

Sansa makes her face as neutral as possible. Her best friend’s attachment to her stupid cousin is one of the more aggravating aspects of her life, especially since Theon shows precisely no signs of ever committing to his on-again, off-again relationship with Jeyne.

“Maybe he’s just busy,” she tells Jeyne.

Jeyne pouts. “Doubt it.”

Sansa shrugs and goes back to planning her outfit, but the moment Jeyne isn’t looking she pulls out her phone.

_(339): Get over here right fucking now, loser._

Theon’s reply comes slowly, but it makes Sansa red-hot with rage.

_(781): Why, did Jeyne tell you to text me_

_(339): NO_

_(339): I need you to get into the party okay?_

Sansa bites her lip as she waits for a reply. Maybe that ‘NO’ was a little emphatic.

_(781): where are you then_

_(339): my dorm_

Sansa sighs. Theon would read “my dorm” as “with Jeyne,” and well, he wouldn’t be wrong. He’d be reluctant to go anywhere Jeyne was.

_(339): we have vodka if you want it_

A minute later—

_(781): i’ll be right over._

“Hey, I think Theon’s coming,” Sansa says lightly to Jeyne, whose look of quickly stifled excitement makes Sansa cringe. Maybe it was a good idea for Jeyne to read Arya’s blog, so she would learn to date boys who treated her better.

Humming slightly—that damn MGMT song is back on—Sansa selects her top for the evening, a grey tunic with a low neckline.

It doesn’t look complete, though, until Sansa puts the necklace that was bought with it, a silver chain with two little charms on the end, a songbird and the head of a wolf: Sansa’s favorite animals when she was little.

 _Robb bought me this_ , Sansa thinks, ignoring the lump in her throat.

She hasn’t heard from her brother in a while—not since she started college— but of course he’s so busy at Harvard he probably doesn’t have time for his annoying little sister. Every call she makes to him these days goes straight to voicemail.

Still, it feels good to wear something he bought her to her first big college party, a good omen.

“Ooh, do what you feel now, electric feel now,” Jeyne is singing into a hairbrush, and Sansa can’t help but laugh. Jeyne is a terrible singer, but that’s never stopped her from trying.

A few minutes later, there’s a knock at the door.

“That must be Theon,” Jeyne says, leaping up, and the door opens to reveal... Theon.

“What,” says Sansa, horrified, “Are you wearing?”

Theon looks down at his outfit and grins a shit-eating grin.

He’s wearing what looks like a tux on top—complete with black jacket, crisp linen shirt, and even a silk pocket square—and jean shorts on the bottom.

“Jorts?” asks Sansa, horror-struck.

 “It’s not that bad.” Jeyne would stick up for Theon, no matter what he was wearing.

“The theme of the party is ‘southern royalty,’” says Theon indignantly. “So, half southern, and half royalty.”

“That’s _ghastly_ ,” says Sansa.

“Hello to you too,” says Theon, coming forward and squeezing Sansa’s side.

Sansa slaps him on the shoulder. Theon’s always had a bit of a thing with her, and the last thing she wants to do is encourage it, especially when he’s dating Jeyne, and especially when she needs Theon to unlock the mystery that is the social landscape of Westeros University.

Theon winces, but holds out both elbows, one for Sansa, and one for Jeyne.

“Ladies,” he says. “Can I escort you to the dance?”

First, though, they have another round of shots.

  

\--

\--

 

By the time they get out the door, Sansa is tipsy.

Like, stumbling-in-heels tipsy.

Giggling-to-herself tipsy.

The walk to the party seems to take forever.

“Theeeon,” she sings out. “Are you sure you know where this is?”

“Abso-fucking-lutely,” says Theon, patting her arm like she’s a lady in a black-and-white movie.

“You know,” he says. “We’re gonna be out of our element here, Sans. TZZ is southern. I’m talking seersucker suits and SEC.”

“So?” Sansa says, sticking out her tongue at him.

“So hold in that Bahston accent for a while, ok?”

“Only if you hold in yours,” Sansa retorts.

The Greyjoys were even more “Bahston” than the Starks. They’d been making ships in Boston since the American Revolution.

But the Starks were originally from Maine, where they made their fortune in lumber.

But—

Okay, she could deal with that. She’d only been in Virginia three weeks, and she already knew what grits were. The rest couldn’t be that hard.

“And it’s alumni weekend, so there are gonna be some adults there for a while, but they should clear out fast.”

Sansa makes a face. She’d forgotten about that. Thankfully, her own parents—and Theon’s—had opted out this year.

“I know,” Theon says. “But it should be fun anyway.”

Right on-cue, they approach what must be the party. It’s not a dorm as she expected, but an actual fraternity house.

The school forces most fraternities and sororities into on-campus housing, but some of the older, richer ones get to stay off-campus in their own homes.

The Tau Zeta Zeta house is huge and gorgeous, southern-style with a wraparound porch.

“They must be _loaded_ ,” Jeyne Poole says next to her, in tones of awe.

“Hopefully with Sigmas,” mutters Theon, with a sly glance at Sansa, who glares at him.

The party is booming with noise and activity. But not so much that Sansa misses what happens next.

“Hey, Sansa!” comes a voice. “Theon!”

It’s Jon’s voice.

Her half-brother. Who must be heartbroken indeed if he’s at a frat party, of all places. 

But— and Sansa looks around—

Where exactly _is_ Jon?

“Look _up_ ,” Jon’s voice implores them, and Sansa, Jeyne, and Theon crane their necks upward.

Sansa immediately wonders how much vodka she’s had.

Is that really Jon?

On the roof?

Smoking weed?

With a _dwarf_?

“I think this is the wrong party,” Jeyne says, sounding faint.

 

\--

\--

 

The moment they get inside, both girls dissolve into huge, belly-aching peals of laughter.

Jeyne is wiping actual tears from her face. “Oh my fucking god. Did that really just happen?”

“I am not related to him!” Sansa says, holding up a hand. “I am not!”

“Sorry, but your half-brother is weird as _shit_.” Jeyne starts giggling all over again.

“I know, tell me about it,” Sansa says, miserably. “My whole _family_ is weird. Between him, and Bran, who is like the biggest space cadet ever, and Arya, with her weird… online… feminism or whatever, my brother and I are the only ones who turned out normal. And Robb’s at Harvard! I’m all alone here.”

Sansa feels weepy all of a sudden.

“But you have Theon! And me!” Jeyne takes her hand.

“Aww,” Sansa says. “You’re my best, best friend.”

“The bestest!” Jeyne says brightly.

She wonders if Jeyne would still be her best friend if she knew Sansa didn’t like boys.

That isn’t a happy thought, though, so she pushes it aside.

Because, tonight, she’s going to be _dazzling_.

Just then, Theon comes in behind them.

“What’s up with roof boy?” Jeyne says, trying not to laugh all over again.

Theon shrugs. “Dunno. His new friend isn’t very nice though. You’d think if you were four feet tall, you’d try _not_   to piss off people.”

Sansa feels a prickle of worry. She makes fun of Jon a lot, but he is her half-brother, and he has a habit of trusting the wrong people.

“Do I need to go up there and—”

“Nah. Jon’s happy up there. Not thinking about Sam for once,” he says, with a glance at Sansa.

Clearly impatient with Theon for ignoring her, Jeyne pointedly loops her arm through his.

As Jeyne and Theon go in for a kiss, Sansa takes the moment to scan the room around them. The house really is huge. She’s standing in the entryway, but there’s a huge spiral staircase in front of her leading to the second floor, and two cavernous rooms cleared of all furniture on either side.

And there are boys. Everywhere.

_Ugh. I did not put on my nice shirt for this._

One of them is leering at her already, a huge guy with what looks like a burn mark on his face.

She quickly turns into one of the cavernous rooms behind the staircase. It’s filled with people and the stench of beer, but maybe she can lose him in here.

No such luck.

He’s right behind her—and now she’s lost sight of Theon and Jeyne as well.

She turns around and tries to think of something bold to say.

Something Arya would say.

But all that comes out is her own meek little voice, asking him: “Can I help you?”

_‘Can I help you?’ Really, Stark?_

But the giant is speechless, swaying on his feet on front of her, and for a moment Sansa really isn’t sure whether she should be shooing him away or helping him.

She’s spared that decision by the sudden sensation of another girl taking her arm.

“Sansa!”

It’s the girl from political science, of all people.

“Glad I ran into you! I was just looking for you. I wanted to introduce you to someone.”

Before Sansa can protest, the shorter girl is leading her away from the swaying man with a firm hand.

“Sorry,” the other girl says, when they’ve finally lost him in the crowd. “That looked awkward.”

Sansa turns to stare at her. What was her name again? It was something boyish.

“Dany?”

“Yes, actually. Very good.”

The other girl looks surprised and pleased Sansa remembered her name—for which Sansa silently thanks her mother. Catelyn Stark is a Nazi about good manners and remembering people’s names.  

“From political science,” Dany says, by way of unnecessary explanation.

“Thanks for saving me,” Sansa says.

“No problem. It looked like that guy was bothering you.”

“I meant in class,” Sansa says, cheeks burning. “I read the chapter but…”

Looking at Dany’s face, Sansa is again struck by how pretty she is.

Doesn’t hurt that she seems to have ditched the hippie outfit. She’s now wearing a floaty white top and shorts.

“I guess that’s twice you saved me,” Sansa finishes helplessly.

“Happy to help,” Dany says. “Honestly, I probably read less of it than you did. I just remembered the answer from high school.”

Now that Sansa has listened to this girl talk for a while, she can hear the inflection in her voice: an accent of some kind. Sansa guesses southern, but it doesn’t sound southern like the movies, it’s softer and more real, with harder As and softer Is.

But it seems rude to comment on it, so Sansa says instead, “That class is really weird for me because my aunt is dating the professor.”

Immediately she cringes at herself. _Way to sound like a snot. Like I’m friends with the professor._

Plus, she never knows how people are going to react to the whole “lesbians” thing.

But Dany barely blinks.

“I know how that is,” she says. “My family has pretty deep roots here too. That’s how I got dragged here tonight.”

Dany’s southern accent, as well as what Theon told her on the way over, start to click.

Sansa wonders if perhaps she’s inadvertently made a good friend to have at this party.

“Oh really? Do you know anyone in Sigma?”

“Well, this is a TZZ party, although Sigmas crash them from time to time.”

“Of course,” Sansa says, flustered. “I meant TZZ.”

Hair Girl from political science is admittedly the last person she expected to have important connections.

“Both my brothers were TZZs,” Dany says. “Although my middle brother got kicked out. But my oldest brother was president for a while.”

“Oh… that’s neat.”

“Plus, my brother’s wife’s brother was TZZ. Oh! And since we were talking about Sigma, my brother’s wife was a Sigma. I rushed Sigma too, but then I decided the sorority thing wasn’t for me.”

Sansa now feels faintly nauseous, thinking back to how rude she was in class earlier.

“Wow, that’s… a lot of people.”

Dany brightens. “Actually, some of them are here tonight, for alumni weekend. I can introduce you to them if you want. Although I mainly said that to get rid of that guy who was following you.”

_Well, if I want to be a Sigma… I need to know those people._

Sansa can almost feel herself swallowing her pride.

“Sure,” she says, hating how very unsure her voice sounds.

“Come on, then,” Dany says in that adorable southern lilt.

The next minute, she’s taking Sansa’s hand and leading them deeper into the party.


	2. Chapter 2

Hand-in-hand, Sansa and Dany pass under a banner draped from the steps that reads, “Southern Royalty- Alumni Weekend 2013.”

_Where’s my northern royalty party?_

Sansa’s thoughts are tinged with envy now—she would love to be the one leading Dany, who suddenly seems very pretty, through a crowd of her Boston friends— as they come into the kitchen, which seems to be the epicenter of the swirling mess that is the TZZ party.

There are not one, not two, or three, but six— _six_ —giant kegs in the kitchen.

Seated on two of them are three of the most handsome men she’s ever seen.

Sansa may be gay, but she’s not blind, and as one of them turns to face her—a tall, fit man in his late twenties with long golden hair and the face of a rock star—she finds herself blushing.

“Hey, Dany, darlin’,” he says, looking Sansa over. “You find my brother anywhere?”

If Dany’s voice has a soft lilt, this man’s drawl is as thick as any Hollywood accent Sansa’s ever heard.

“On the roof,” says Dany in reply.

 “Making friends with the misfits and outcasts?”

“You know it.”

“Typical. Shame, because this freshman just bet me he and his friend could outdrink the Lannister brothers.”

Dany looks amused. “Can he?”

 “Babe,” he says. “We’d put him in the hospital.”

The golden man throws his head back and laughs.

Then he notices Sansa.

 “Oh, I’m sorry. Forgot my manners. I’m Jaime.”

“I’m Sansa Stark,” she says, extending a hand.

At the sound of her name, the other man—who until now has been deep in conversation with a frat boy with brown curly hair—looks up.

And to Sansa’s horror, she suddenly knows exactly who he is, and who Dany’s family is.

“Ray,” she says softly.

The other man—with long pale hair like Dany’s and a face like a model—is familiar to Sansa from countless Christmases and childhood birthday parties.

When she was little, he’d been her aunt Lyanna’s fiancé. Almost part of the Stark family at one point.

Sansa looks back to Dany, her heart beating fast, cursing herself for her stupidity.

Dany… Targaryen. Of course.

Not a family the Starks were fond of.

Oh, Ray Targaryen had been alright, if a little rough around the edges for the blueblood Starks. But it was Lyanna’s future father-in-law that killed any chance of Ray and Lyanna ever tying the knot.

Specifically the moment when Aerys Targaryen pissed on the carpet on Christmas morning.

…After ranting all through Christmas Eve dinner about how “the blacks” were ruining the country.

Sansa doesn’t remember much about the Targaryens, but she does remember that.

“Arya,” says Ray, looking at her like she’s a ghost. “Or Sansa.” At the look on Sansa’s face, he corrects himself.

Dany looks as stunned as Sansa feels. “You’re a Stark,” the other girl says. “I didn’t know that.”

 “And you’re a Targaryen,” says Sansa, unable to hold in the weird, unfriendly smile she knows is forming on her face.

Beside them, Jaime looks uncomfortable and leaps up from the keg, muttering something about finding his brother.

The third stranger, the boy with the brown curly hair, is also looking at her curiously now.

To break the tension, she holds her hand out to him.

“You look familiar too,” she lies, but the moment after she says it she realizes it’s true. There _is_ something familiar in his smile—a slight crinkle forming on his nose—

“I’m Loras Tyrell,” the boy says. “But I don’t believe we’ve met.”

Ray jumps to his feet, as eager as Sansa for a change of topic. “This is the current fraternity president.”

Loras looks down with faux self-consciousness. “The _current_ president, as Ray and Jaime are our past presidents.”

“Are you telling me I’m old?” Ray says, laughing.

Loras smiles bashfully, but Sansa can read his real meaning easily: _yes._   She kind of likes him for it.

“Loras,” Dany says, undaunted. “Do you know what time the Sigmas will be here?”

“You mean Margaery?” Loras asks.

Dany reddens for some reason, but her bearing stays the same.

“Oh, any minute,” Loras says. “You should ask Jaime. His sister is the star alumna of the weekend, isn’t she?”

Loras smiles again, but with that arrogant smile turned on Dany, Sansa isn’t so sure she likes him anymore.

Sansa wants to ask him to tell her about this Margaery, but the air is thick with tension now. It’s funny, because this is a frat party, yet suddenly it feels like one of those society events the Starks go to on occasion in New York— not quite a party, but something else, something rich with family, history, and unspoken rules.

The problem is, beyond a passing familiarity with the Targaryens, Sansa doesn’t know any of the families. The South is a whole different world.

“I think… I need a drink,” she says, reaching for the keg.

“Good idea,” Dany says quickly.

As they reach for the spout on the keg, their eyes meet—the other girl really has the most amazing dark blue eyes—and their hands touch. Sansa giggles then, for no reason.

“Sorry,” she says, and hands the first cup she pours to Dany.

“Thanks,” they both say at the same time.

More awkward laughter.

For the first time, Sansa can see a touch of nervousness in Dany’s face. But today in class she seemed so self-assured, so unconcerned with what anyone else may think of her. Is she doing that? She, Sansa? Sansa hoped not.

“I’m sorry about that,” the other girl says, frowning, gesturing vaguely at Ray, who has now taken the opportunity to work his way around the room.

Sansa doesn’t know what to say. Ray didn’t do anything wrong.

“It’s okay,” she says anyway.

She takes a sip and watches Dany do the same. The beer leaves behind a sheen on Dany’s full lips, but Sansa tries not to look too hard.

Then they’re both distracted by a sudden roar from the other room.

“Something’s happening,” Sansa says.

“Jaime found Tyrion, I’d reckon,” says Dany, the word “reckon” sounding absurdly soft and cute and _southern_ in her mouth.

“Who?”

“Let’s go,” says Dany, and Sansa barely has time to object, because there’s Dany’s hand on hers again, leading her, sending a pleasant tingle up her spine.

The next room is hot and airless, filled with a cluster of fraternity boys clustered around… something.

But Sansa is tall enough to see between their heads and over their shoulders.

There’s the alum—Jaime, Dany had said—and the dwarf from the roof, passing a handle of whiskey back and forth, hardly pausing for breath.

A drinking game. No wonder the frat boys are hypnotized.

But so is she, in a way, by the mere fact that the two men in front of her are related—for they could not look less like each other, one ugly as the other is handsome. 

And yet, once they drain the handle at a remarkable speed and mockingly bow to their audience, almost identical Cheshire-cat grins bloom on their faces.

For a moment Sansa feels a twinge in her chest, thinking of Robb.

But across the room, she suddenly spots Jon, who is better than nothing, after all. Hovering on the fringes of the crowd, he’s watching the Lannister brothers with an expression Sansa can’t quite read, somewhere between longing and awe.

“Jon!” she cries, but he doesn’t hear her over the roar of the crowd—and besides, she reminds herself, the Sigmas could be here any minute, and the last thing she needs now is her gay-as-show-choir half-brother hanging around.

In front of her, Jaime Lannister, now victorious, with one arm thrown around his brother’s shoulders, seizes a shockingly tall blonde woman from the crowd with his other arm and kisses her violently. Tightly clutching his brother and the woman who must be his wife or girlfriend, Sansa thinks she’s never seen anyone look as happy as Jaime Lannister does right now.

Watching the two tall blondes kiss, Sansa becomes aware of her own fingers, still twined in Dany’s.

Dany’s hands are smaller and softer than her own, the nails less long, but Sansa likes the feel of them, warm in hers.

They turn towards each other, Dany with amusement and kindness in her dark eyes.

They’re some crazy color, halfway between blue and green—and in the dim light, almost violet.

Sansa can feel her heart beating fast, but the moment is over as fast as it began.

“Sigma! Sigma! Sigma!” begins a chant all around them.

“Sigma? The sorority?” Sansa croaks, fighting against a throat that’s suddenly gone dry.

All around her and Dany, frat boys are cheering, and someone hangs another banner from the mantle.

Sure enough, the banner is painted with those three weird letters she saw at the gym.

 _They’re here. And here you are, hand in hand with Political Science girl, looking into her eyes like a_ _big fat_ lesbian. _Way to go, Stark._

The frat boys are forming two lines on either side of the room, and Dany is pulling her with them, to make way for someone.

Many someones, actually.

_Girls._

Into the foyer comes a stream of tall, tanned golden girls, each in a shorter dress than the last. Sansa can hardly breathe as TZZ’s sister fraternity—the whole reason she’s here—enters the party at last.

They’re led by the most golden of them all. An alum, Sansa can tell, a severe, regal-looking woman with golden hair, wearing an expression of utter disdain for the fraternity boys around her.

She approaches Jaime Lannister and gives him an air kiss.

Sansa stares at them in fascination—Jaime and the woman at the head of the Sigmas are mirror images of each other.

_They must be related too. Maybe twins._

But Sansa can hardly focus on them, as the undergraduate Sigmas keep streaming in a haze of golden limbs. Instinctively she drops Dany’s hand.

Then Loras, the boy with curly hair, leaps up from the keg and embraces a girl with equally—

That’s _her._

The girl from the gym, the one with perfect bone structure. She’s ditched the yoga pants for a green Anthropologie dress that positively floats behind her when she walks.  

Sansa can only stare.

“Margaery!” Loras says, holding up her hand as though she’s a prize he just won.

“Loras, that’s enough,” the girl says indulgently.

Her smile is mega-watt bright and a bit lazy, the corners of her mouth twitching up in a way that drives Sansa crazy.

Then the girl’s eyes fall on Dany. For a split-second, the smile vanishes, replaced by a cold, almost hostile expression… which Dany returns.

Sansa is confused. Do these two know each other?

But before she can say anything, Dany grabs Sansa’s hand decisively.

“Let’s dance,” Dany says.

Helplessly, Sansa has to agree. This isn’t the way she wants to meet Ponytail Girl anyway, especially since she seems to dislike Dany so much.

“It’s a bit hot in here, isn’t it?” Dany is leading them to the door. Truth be told, Sansa’s jeans are beginning to stick her legs, and she wouldn’t mind a bit of fresh air.

Not to mention, Jeyne and Theon might be outside.

But they don’t quite make it outside. They make it as far as the next room when they’re suddenly overwhelmed by a crush of bodies heading to the dance floor.

A heavy beat thunders through the frat house, and Sansa finds herself pressed against Dany.

Then someone spills beer all over Dany’s white shirt. Gasping in surprise, shutting her eyes in embarrassment, Dany turns to the guy.

“Excuse me?”

“Oh, sorry,” says the boy. Tall, buff, and Hawaiian-looking, with long black hair, he looks like the cover of a cheesy romance novel, and Sansa instantly hates him.

But he does look genuinely sorry.

Dany—tiny, five-foot-tall Dany— stares him down anyway. Hawaiian Guy leaves without saying another word.

“You’re tough,” says Sansa when the guy leaves. “I like that about you.”

Sansa doesn’t recognize the song playing, but it’s pretty and the beat makes her feel good. _And you said, it was like fire around the brim_. _Like stars burning holes right through the dark._

“Want to dance?” Dany says, looking up at Sansa.

Somehow, instinctively, she knows that Dany isn’t asking the way Jeyne might ask.

“Sure,” Sansa says, feeling a little shy as she moved closer to Dany, her taller form awkward next to Dany’s.

But having Dany in her arms feels amazing, the best feeling there is. She’s so soft and her body moves so easily in time with Sansa’s. Dany pulls her closer, so that they’re touching from chest to hip, and it feels really good.

_Like a sleepyhead, sleepyhead, go ahead._

Dany is looking at Sansa with a small smile on her lips, a smile that meets her eyes, those big, dark eyes—

They’re kissing.

It’s shocking, this kissing-Hair-Girl thing, something Sansa never planned, never expected—

But Dany is a good kisser too, her tongue dipping into Sansa’s mouth with just the barest amount of pressure.

Sansa’s hands snake around Dany’s hips to the small of her back, and she hears herself make a small noise at the back of her throat.

_Okay, this can go on forever._

But even as she thinks it, the moment is already over.

“Well,” says a voice somewhere to Sansa’s right. “I’d hoped to say hello, but it looks like you’re busy.”

Sansa turns away from Dany slowly, in vague recognition, because that voice is familiar, somehow, low and warm and… sexy.

It’s Margaery.

The girl from the gym. Sorority president.

Tall and bronzed, the other girl looks immaculate next to Dany in her beer-stained peasant blouse. _Margaery looks like royalty,_ Sansa supposes. But the Targaryen family is better-known than this girl and her curly-haired brother.

The two girls are glaring daggers at each other.

 “Somehow I knew you would waste no time in seducing one of our best prospects,” says Margaery.

She smiles at Sansa, who feels her stomach do a backflip. Between Dany and Margaery, she’s not sure who is more beautiful or intimidating.

 “You’re a Stark, aren’t you?” Margaery says to Sansa. “I can’t imagine why you would want to make friends with people like them.”

“People like who?” Sansa says, stuttering a bit.

 _Definitely Margaery_ , she decides right then. _Margaery is the more intimidating one._

Margaery smiles again; she looks exactly like her brother when she smiles.

“Sansa—your name is Sansa, isn’t it?—I’ve worked very hard to make certain changes to our sisterhood,” she says. “Diversity, for one. Expanding our horizons beyond girls from the Targaryen and Lannister families has done wonders for the chapter.”

Maybe it’s the beer, but Sansa feels befuddled. For one thing, how does Ponytail Girl know her name? For another, she feels offended on Dany’s behalf but she doesn’t know what to say. It’s hard to find the insult in Margaery’s words.

“I’m sorry,” says Sansa.  

“The quality of our friends determines our own quality, Sansa,” says Margaery, sounding remarkably like Dr. Martell. “Sigma takes that into consideration when extending its bids.”

Margaery nods at Dany and leaves them alone, leaving Sansa to stare after her in disbelief.

“What was that all about?” Sansa says, turning to face Dany.

Dany hasn’t taken her eyes off Margaery’s retreating back.

“I used to date her,” Dany says casually.

But to Sansa, the words feel like a blow.

She’ll _never_ get a bid from Sigma now.

“I think I’ll go get a refill,” she says.

 

\--

\--

 

Sansa gets away from Dany as fast as she can, not going to get beer at all, but in fact making an immediate turn into the backyard.

She’s just screwed up her only chance to impress Margaery.

This is it: her life, as a freshman at WU, is ruined.

Hands shaking, Sansa pulls out her phone. Touches the R button, watches as the one number she needs, the one name she can trust pops up.

She hits “call.”

Two rings. Then a husky voice on the other end of the phone. The voice of someone who, minutes ago, was sound asleep.

“Robbie,” Sansa says.

Her own voice sounds weak as a little girl’s as she says her big brother’s name.

“Sans,” he says.

There’s a really lovely song starting, one she’s never heard before. That, with the lights strung all around her, and the beer in her tummy, makes everything suddenly feel like a dream.

Then everyone is singing along to the song, and for a moment the sound threatens to drown out her conversation with Robb.

_Sorry I couldn’t be there, I was tied to a rocking chair. I was beat down to a pulp, rocking back and forth somewhere._

“Sans,” Robb says, faint on the other end, sounding worried. “Are you alright?”

Sansa bites her lip. Is she? It’s just a sorority, in the end.

But right now it means so much, and she can’t find the words to tell Robb how she feels: like maybe, she’s just a typical Stark after all, and she thinks of Jon then, so weird and quiet and _gay_ , and forever standing outside the closed circle of people like the Lannisters, waiting to be let in.

_If you knew, if you saw, you’d have said it was the final straw. That my life was bound and tethered on a porch by the shore._

“Yeah,” she says into the phone. “I just miss you.”

A sigh on the other end.

“I miss you so much, Sans,” he says. “Are you going to be okay?”

“Yeah,” she says. “I just had a little too much to drink?”

“Be careful. Text me when you get back. And don’t go home with the wrong guy, okay?”

“Robbie,” she says, putting her head in her hands. “I’m gay.”

A moment of silence, lengthening.

“I know,” Robb says, after a while.  “Still. Don’t go home with the wrong guy. Or any guy, I guess.”

Sansa laughs helplessly, unable to believe she just _said it_ —and it wasn’t a big deal at all.

“I love you,” Robb says then, each word as warm as the summer air.

“I love you too,” she says.

“Take care, okay? And go home soon. It’s almost 3 AM.” Here’s big-brother Robb speaking now, and he sounds just like her mom and dad.

“I will,” Sansa promises.

“I’m going to visit you after midterms, okay? You and Theon and Jon. I miss you guys.”

“Okay.” Sansa suddenly can’t stop smiling. “We miss you too.”

“Goodnight, Sans,” he says.

“G’night.”

Sansa barely hears the click before her phone is ringing again.

She stares at the name.

It’s Arya.

“Hello,” she says uncertainly. Why on earth is her little sister awake?

“Hey loser,” Arya says, sounding as wide awake as Sansa.

“Hey yourself.”

_It’s funny being funny, makes you feel like up and running, when your past lingers like rainclouds, casting shadows below…_

“Why are you awake?” Sansa says.

“Broke up with Gendry. Called Robb about it.”

_I could live with so many burdens, I’d take all your hope and yearning, but there’s no way out to take me from their petty little woes…_

“Broke up… You too? Jon…”

“Broke up with Sam too. I know.”

“But you and Gendry too? Why?”

“Dunno, really. He wants to go to college together.”

Her sister’s boyfriend Gendry, who graduated high school two years ago and had yet to make the leap into higher education.

 Sansa is processing this more slowly than she usually would, after half a bottle of wine and a beer. But she has to try. Somehow she has to come up with whatever words her little sister needs to hear right now.

 “That’s good, isn’t it? That he wants to go?”

Truth be told, Sansa’s barely talked to Arya since she started college. Talking to her now is like relearning a foreign language she took in seventh grade.

“Yeah, I guess. But I kind of want to be my own person now? You know?”

“You should be,” says Sansa, wishing she could sound more convincing. “That’s what college is all about.”

Just then—arriving like a small tornado—there is an arm around her shoulders and an overpowering stench of beer.

“Theon!” Sansa cries as she struggles to hold the phone under his sudden weight.

“Stark!” Theon bellows into her ear.

Theon is not alone, either. Beside him, and looking considerably calmer is Jon, who smiles slowly and shrugs at Theon.

“Who’s on the phone?” Theon yells at her. “New boyfriend, Sans?”

“It’s my sister, dickwad,” Sansa shouts back.

She hears Arya giggle on the other end.

“Arya!” Theon takes the phone from her and screams into it. “Holy shit, Arya, I’m sorry!”

“Sansa,” says Jon, giggling at her name like it’s the funniest thing he’s ever heard.

“You’re stoned,” Sansa says, glaring at him.

“Yeah,” says Jon, grinning like a golden retriever.

 _I know that it's always something_  
I'm just working with what I've been given  
It's not my fault I'm happy  
Don't call me crazy I'm happy

Sansa takes the phone from Theon, who is howling incoherently into the receiver.

“I’m so sorry,” she tells Arya. “We’re at a party.”

Arya giggles again. “I can tell. Who’d invite you to a party, though? You’re such a loser.”

“Hey. About Gendry. You don’t need anyone else,” Sansa says. “You’ve got us. We’re enough.”

Easy for her to say, when she has her half-brother and cousin right there, standing around her like two particularly dumb bodyguards.

But Arya is alone on the other end of the line, and Sansa knows from her conversation with Robb just how hard it is when the people you love most are voices on the phone, or a smiley face at the end of a text or Facebook chat.

“If Gendry gives you any trouble,” Sansa says. “I’ll kick his ass.”

For a moment there is silence on the other end.

Then a sound like a sniffle, a weak giggle.

“I love you too,” Arya says, so quietly Sansa has to strain to hear it.

They’re not usually like this, her and Arya—usually they’re at each other’s throats—but tonight she’s had a lot to drink and she misses Boston.

“Losers forever,” Sansa says.

Her sister echoes her.

“Losers forever.”

The other end goes click.

Sansa takes a deep breath.

All around her, the backyard is filled with families.

Families of all shapes and sizes, related and not, some as small as Loras and Margaery, laughing attractively at each other in a cloud of Anthropologie.

Others are as numerous as the Lannister clan: Ray and his golden girl, whom Sansa supposes to be Jaime’s twin, who are standing beside Jaime and the tall blonde woman, whom he is still kissing passionately.

Beside them, too, is the dwarf brother, alone with a handle of Jameson.

Noticing Sansa watching, he slowly raises his glass to her, and for a moment there’s something about him, and that simple gesture, that feels so familiar, like this has all happened before in some other place, some other time.

Skin prickling with déjà vu, she raises her bottle back.

Maybe it’s just that the whole scene feels like a TV show, all of them so easily sharing space with each other, in this little light-strewn backyard.

If this were a TV show, they’d all be best friends by morning.

 _We still might,_ Sansa thinks. _These are those kinds of people. This is that kind of night._

Just as she thinks this, Dany appears from behind her brother’s shoulder.

Somehow she’s gotten glitter all over herself and it only makes her silvery blond hair shine brighter.

“What happened to you?” Sansa says, gliding forward and taking Dany’s hands in her own.

“Glitter party,” Dany said, smiling. “Down the street.”

“Figured.”

“Hey, I—” Dany starts to say, but Sansa doesn’t let her finish.

Because she’s thrown her arms around the shorter girl and drawn her into a deep kiss.

When a girl looks this good, all covered in glitter, when you just kissed her minutes beforehand, when her lips taste as sweet as they did before, it’s too much to resist.

Dany makes a noise of surprise.

“Are you okay?” she asks. “I didn’t mean— I’m so sorry. Didn’t you want to rush Sigma? I don’t want to—”

“Margaery will have forgotten everything by tomorrow morning,” Sansa says, trying to sound confident about it.

Dany smiles sadly. “So will you.”

Sansa shakes her head. “No, I won’t.”

Dany looks Sansa in the eyes for one long moment, doubtful. “You’re not worried about Sigma now?”

“I’ll figure it out.”

 “That’s what we’re all here for, isn’t it?” Dany says, pushing back Sansa’s hair. “To figure it out.”

 _Yeah_ , thinks Sansa. _It is._

She doesn’t _know_ that in the strictest sense, if that’s true or not, but it sounds like something Robb might say, and it’s coming from the lips of this very pretty girl who just kissed her (twice).

And okay, even if things do look bad from the vantage point of 10AM tomorrow morning, she can always blame everything on the Smirnoff, or on Jeyne for making her drink it, or on just _being eighteen_ —because being eighteen feels light and easy on her back, better than she hoped it would be, in spite of all the craziness.

“Yeah,” Sansa says, out loud, to Dany. “We’ll figure it out.”

Dany smiles, and takes her hand.


End file.
